In Pursuit of a New American Industrialism

And You Thought Pittsburgh Was Weird About Nostalgia

I am not sure what this says about the state of Amercian cities. But it must say something. Check it out: It's a treatise about New Yorkers fondly recalling the dirt, grime and crime of the late 70s and early 80s. When you could smoke in New York, and catch a porno. And get stabbed. Methinks it has something to do with "authenticity" or some other thing I can't understand:

A lot has changed from a quarter-century ago or so, when our fair city was best known for graffiti-decorated subways, blasting boom boxes and the faint smell of urine rising from the summer pavement. There were no Tinsley Mortimers, no hedge-fund gods. No $1,000 pizzas or latte factories, no $50 million mansions or elliptical trainers at Equinox. Indeed, in 1975, the city’s government declared bankruptcy. “Ford to City: Drop Dead” blasted the Daily News, after the President refused to bail us out, and, two years later, it seemed like a serial murderer named Son of Sam was determined to deliver the sentence.

The rest of the country thought we were goners, collapsed in a sputter of crime, crack and fiscal disaster. There were landlords burning down their buildings—you couldn’t give ‘em away! Hookers hanging out on 83rd and Broadway—right near Zabar’s!

But you know what? We liked it.

The dog shit was piled so high in the streets you needed a mountain ax just to traverse the sidewalk—but we liked it. The buildings were so blackened by grime you could barely see them in the dark—but we liked it. The subways were so dangerous you felt you were descending into Hell—and we liked it, we loved it, hallelujah!

Makes our nostalgia for the steel mills look positively normal, no?

What's even stranger is that almost all of the people quoted in the article are in their 30s. Around my age. So they can hardly remember the Charles Bronson Death Wish era. Right?

Comments

you know, it wasn't boring back then. Times Square was wild and frightening as soon as the sun sank into new jersey. I don't really miss the mess, but i can't embrace the blandness either. there's gotta be something in between...which has always been my stance about most things discussed here.

you know, it wasn't boring back then. Times Square was wild and frightening as soon as the sun sank into new jersey. I don't really miss the mess, but i can't embrace the blandness either. there's gotta be something in between...which has always been my stance about most things discussed here.

One of the criticisms of nostalgia for 1970s New York is that it is largely confined to people who lived in Manhattan and had a certain amount of money. Working-class eople who lived in the outer boroughs, those most affected by the rising crime, failing schools and crumbling social services may not have such fond memories.

"One of the criticisms of nostalgia for 1970s New York is that it is largely confined to people who lived in Manhattan and had a certain amount of money."

Good points. But I wonder if it would be even more applicable if you put it in present tense. That is, even Manhattan seemed to be a bit of a dump back in the Death Wish days. And even the rich people started wondering.

So I think it is interesting that the people waxing nostalgic are people in their 30s. You know. The kind of people who read The Observer. Whatever that means. (I read it. And I don't think I fit the profile I am talking about. So that shows what I know.)

Still, I think this seems to be nostalgia for an "authentic" or "gritty" city. One with "real" people. What you have now is a lot of professional, upper-middle class people in the city, all looking around for authentic New York, and instead finding--a lot of upper class professionals.

This is not limited to NYC, of course. You can go to a lot of small towns, especially ones on the edges of big cities, and find the same thing. People moving there, looking for Andy Griffith. But when they get there, they discover that Aunt Bee sold her house to an attorney who drives a Range Rover and makes $650,000 a year. Which pisses them off. (Of course, then you realize that the attorney living in Aunt Bee's house is looking at you the same way.)

Or you see it in farming communities, when people looking for "real America" buy a lot on a recently subdivided farm, then start passing laws that make it illegal for other farmers to subdivide. You know. Because its ruining the culture of the place.

It gets confusing. I think I need a beer. Or a latte. I am not sure what I am supposed to be drinking.

I used to go to NYC a lot in the 1970s. Yeah it was wide open fun. If you were young, too. Artists, musicians, writers, swingers, disco-ers and anyone who was looking for a "good" time of any type loved that new york. and they didn't all have money. the "artistic" street cred is gone.

i mean, come on, a lot of us here bitch about cheesecake factories and pottery barns replacing klein's restaurant (do you guys know that one) and hardware stores downtown. It's sort of the same.

Yes, Downtown in the 1970s was "lively." Porn shops, strip clubs and massage parlors were everywhere. So were drug dealers, hookers and muggers. For better or worse, when the "bad" element got swept out of Manhattan, something "better" replaced it. Unfortunately, that hasn't happened here to the same degree.

The search for authenticity is a recurring theme around here, but I've yet to see anyone define it. There are plenty of examples of authenticity--and we probably know it when we see it--but nobody's put their finger on it just yet. That could be a blog unto itself and would be worth the bandwidth.

Maybe it's just the cynical snob-hating part of me talking, but I suspect that many of these authenticity-starved thirtysomethings like the idea of authenticity but don't actually want to get too close to it. Taking their car to the local garage (rather than Jiffy Lube) for an oil change is great just as long as they don't have to hold a conversation with the mechanic.

In any event, it strikes me that these people are living vicariously through other people's lives, as if by being near something real they too will be real. It's sad, really, when you think about it.